


as soon as forever is through, i'll be over you

by S3C



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Combeferre and Courfeyrac are adorable, Enjolras is a blind idiot, F/M, Lion King, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, R im so sorry my baby, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S3C/pseuds/S3C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has always been in love with Enjolras. Stupidly, stupidly in love. And stupidly clinging to the tiny shred of hope that maybe he loves him back. The hope that has been shattered now that Enjolras is getting married. And because Enjolras is quite possibly the most oblivious person in the world, he asked R to do a speech. And because R is so madly in love with said oblivious person, he says yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying again with posting my work on here, since i took down the first one in a fit of self-doubt. Lets hope this one can stay up for more than two hours ;)  
> Any feedback or con-crit would be so so so welcome - I am always looking to improve.

 “Courf no.” Combeferre was resolute.  
“Please Ferre.” Courfeyrac pleaded.  
“No! It’s entirely inappropriate.”  
“Why!?”  
“Because it is, ‘Fey!”  
“Please please please please please please pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac climbed into his lap and pressed his forehead against Combeferre’s, dropping teasing kisses all over his face while he begs. “Please. Please pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”  
“God you’re like a bratty 5 year old.” Combeferre laughed despite himself, capturing Courfeyrac’s lips for a moment and kissing him back.  
“ _Please_.”  
“What will you give me in return?” Combeferre smirked.  
“Well,” Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows in a way that should _not_ be attractive, “Let me think.”

 

 

When it dropped through the letter box, Grantaire was lying on the couch, still recovering from his hangover. The sound of the expensive envelope hitting the mat captured his attention, and as soon as he spotted it he froze, because there was no doubting, even from that far away, what it was.

He just sat there, staring at it with a mixture of agony and dismay in his eyes for God knows how long.

And then he grabbed it and stamped on it, jumping up and down over and over until it was crumpled and bent and the floor shook, ripped it into tiny pieces before he even opened the cream sachet, screaming and yelling profanities, and then threw them into the dwindling fire on the grate, watching them burn with a strange, fierce delight until there was nothing left of them.

And then he threw up. The contents of his stomach spewing over his carpet, table and sofa, not aiding in making him feel any better, only far far worse as the smell hit his nostrils and all he could taste was an acrid aftertaste in his mouth. His brain was only half functioning, which had less to do with the copious amounts of alcohol he had imbibed than he would have liked, and with his head spinning, he crawled over to a clean patch of floor and did the only thing he could possibly do in a situation like this: he pulled his phone out of his pocket with fumbling fingers and called Jehan.

He barely managed to get a word out, his throat hoarse and dry; before Jehan was promising he would be over in a few minutes, and not to worry. He hung up, and R was alone with the pressing silence like a vice around him, and tears slipping down his face. Within 10 minutes he was through R’s front door, dropping the plastic bag he was carrying and rushing to his friend’s side.

“R, darling, are you okay?” He shook him by the shoulders desperately. R opened his eyes, crusted with tears, to look up at his friend.

“No.” He shook his head vaguely. “It’s happened. It’s happened, Jehan, the letter, it’s really happening.”

Jehan’s heart sank. He himself had received an invitation to Enjolras’ wedding earlier that morning, and had been waiting with baited breath for R to discover his.

“Shhhhh, baby it’s okay.” He whispered soothing nothing’s in R’s ear as he stroked his arm gently, content to lie there and hold onto him.

“It’s not okay, Jehan. It’s really happening. He’s really marrying her.” He began to hiccup gently into his cries. “Oh god I’m pathetic.” He scrubbed at his eyes with his hands roughly before Jehan managed to pull them away and wrap his arms around him.

“No R, it’s okay. You’re not pathetic, never. It will be okay, R, I promise.” Jehan soothed, squeezing him tightly. He’s not sure how long they lay there for, but when the tears subsided, he gently extracted himself from Grantaire’s grip and stood up, helping his rather groggy friend to his feet as well.

“Go put on some pyjamas and get into bed, okay? I’m going to clean up in here.” Jehan ordered quietly, his voice low and soft. Grantaire obeyed wordlessly, and by the time Jehan came to find him he was curled up with the blankets pulled up so high the only things visible were his blue eyes, dulled with pain, red and blotchy under the harsh glare of the lighting. Jehan passed him the laptop from the kitchen table and the four tubs of ice-cream he had stopped on the way over to buy. He stripped off his shirt, a floral number which he had made himself and was very proud of, and climbed in next to R, who was already digging in to the tub of Peanut Butter Cup ice-cream with one of the spoons Jehan brought too. Jehan grabbed the laptop off R and put on the Avengers in attempt to cheer him up.

Jehan stayed for three more days, Grantaire was very grateful for is calm and soothing presence. He didn’t show up at the meeting on Thursday, and he didn’t go for drinks on a Saturday evening either, which was most usual for him, and prompted several worried texts, none of which he responded too. The next Thursday, he decided he had to go, if only not to arouse suspicious amongst his friends (if he hadn’t already). He hauled himself out of bed, and was already half drunk by the time he reached the Musain, the home of their weekly meetings. He stumbled up the stairs, thankful no-one was around to see him trip, putting his lack of balance down to his drunkenness, because he definitely wasn’t nervous at all. When he reached their usual tables on the 1st floor, he found to his shock that the only people sat there were Enjolras and Combeferre. Shit. He had definitely not meant to be early. “Fuck.” He thought aloud. Then froze as two heads swivelled round to look at him.  
“Hello R,” Enjolras looked pleased to see him, but the smile dropped from his face. “What’s wrong?”  
“Oh, umm nothing I uh, I just forgot to um…. I have a commission I haven’t started yet.” Grantaire stuttered, blaming the stammering on the fact that he was lying rather than the fact that Enjolras’ eyes were just so fucking _blue._  
“Oh, well in that case we’d better let you go home and start it then, what do you say Enj’?” Combeferre put in with a sad, knowing smile in R’s direction. “He can miss the meeting just this once.”  
Enjolras wrinkled his nose but otherwise ignored his friend’s comment, in favour of asking Grantaire what his commission was.   
“A portrait.” Grantaire answered stoically.  
Enjolras waited a moment for Grantaire to expand his answer, before prompting him: “Of?”  
“Of a girl.” Grantaire finished stubbornly, before taking Combeferre up on his offer and turning on his heel so he could entreat back out of the door and find some fucking booze.  
“Wait, R, can I speak to you a moment?” Enjolras stood up, and Combeferre quickly did the same.  
“No, wait, Enj, we talked about this, you can’t, Courfeyrac would be so upset!” He tried in vain, a pained look painted across his face. Enjolras, as one would expect, continued regardless.  
“As I’m sure you are aware, I’m going to be married in a month’s time.” Enjolras’ face practically beamed when he said the word ‘married’ and the part of Grantaire that loved him (which was all of him, really) was happy for him, even if the selfish part of him wanted Enjolras to be happy with _him._  
Combeferre gave a longsuffering sigh and sat back down again, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “No! I was unaware. Congratulations!” R feigned ignorance, because it was better than explaining where his invitation went, impressing himself with how little sarcasm he managed to inject into the felicitation.  
“Oh.” Enjolras’ eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Well I put your invite in the post I’m sure I did.” He fumbled around in his messenger bag for a while, drawing out a piece of card and presenting it to R. It’s lovely indulgent paper, with flamboyant golden swirly writing contrasting with the cream paper, declaring the engagement of Olivier Enjolras and Patricia Derosiers and the practically imminent wedding.  
“Bit soon, isn’t it?” Grantaire asked casually.  
“We couldn’t wait.” Enjolras blushed and grinned, and oh great he was already starting to act like a newlywed. Grantaire was going to be sick. Enjolras continued unfazed.  
“Well, Combeferre is doing a speech obviously.” The man in question was worrying his bottom lip, concerned eyes peering out from behind his square glasses. “And I thought maybe you could do one too?” Enjolras blushed awkwardly, and part of Grantaire awwwed slightly before the rest of him reminded him of the gravity of the situation. Enjolras wanted him to do a fucking. wedding. speech.  
“What about Courf?” R croaked, throat dry.  
“Courfeyrac would just show every baby photo he can get of me and make innuendos the rest of the time.” Enjolras made a face. “I can count on you to be mature and respectful, can’t I?” He turned on Grantaire, tone disapproving.  
“Um yeah sure I guess.” R rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  
“So you’ll do it?” Enjolras asked.  
And of course Grantaire said yes, because a. he the stupidest fucking moron to ever grace this earth, and b. since when has he ever been able to deny his Apollo anything. Enjolras clapped his hands together like a delighted five year old. God, this woman was really messing with him. But then this was the happiest R had seen Enjolras in…well, ever, really.  
And so R excused himself under the pretence of starting his commission, when in actuality he screamed at the wall a little, kicked over a chair and then got very, very drunk.

 

Jehan came over a week or two later, to help R write his speech, but they ended up on the roof, smoking and drinking amiably, looking out over the skyline and flicking cigarette ash onto the tiles.  
In the end, Jehan gave up and wrote it all for him.

 

Enjolras and Patricia’s wedding was a small yet lavish affair, financed by Enjolras’ incredibly wealthy father (though only because he approved of his wife). Enjolras of course invited the Amis, and his father, and Patricia invited a few friends and her family, so it was a small service. Everyone was so joyful though. Grantaire found it sickening. It seemed to be a recurring theme where weddings were concerned. Jehan was doting upon Enjolras, straightening his bowtie and fussing with his hair, the fucking traitor. Courfeyrac was chatting up bridesmaids, and Combeferre was watching over Enjolras with a proud, almost parental smile on his face. And Enjolras of course had his usual nauseating beam plastered all over his stupid, kissable face, looking damn good in a suit which must have cost more than Grantaire earns in a year. Jehan darted back to sit next to R as the music started up, and suddenly Grantaire became very engaged with the flower’s twined into Jehan’s hair because he really didn’t want to have to watch Enjolras and that stupid grin of his get wider.

The service was boring; Grantaire spent most of it thinking about how uncomfortable his cheap suit was, and cataloguing each of the blossoms in Jehan’s strawberry blonde hair, looking down at his too-shiny shoes when the registrar announced that they may now kiss. Jehan’s hand found his, squeezing it tightly, anchoring him to the ground, keeping him in some form of sanity. As soon as the wedding was over, R dashed out, Jehan hot on his heels, to throw up in the bushes planted along the side of the building.

Darkness was descending over the party as Enjolras’ father tapped his glass with a silver spoon, quietening the quartet playing softly in the corner and the guests chattering loudly. He made a long and tiresome speech about the importance of love and family, which was all bullshit in Grantaire’s opinion. Enjolras’ wife was really something, stunningly beautiful, and if rumour is to be believed, intelligent and charming. When M. Enjolras had finished his speech, Combeferre stood up, taking notecards out of his jacket pocket. Before he could start, however, Courfeyrac had leapt up.  
“Now, since Enjolras didn’t see fit to let me do a speech, I find it my _duty_ to hijack Combeferre’s.” Courfeyrac began. Enjolras went very pale and Combeferre put his head in his hands as Courfeyrac launched into song.  
“OH I CAN SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING!” he sang obnoxiously loudly. He looked across at ‘Ferre and frowned when he didn’t join in.  
“Ferre that’s your cue.” He pouted.  
“Oh my god you collaborated with him on this!?” Enjolras groaned in shock. Combeferre just sighed as Courfeyrac restarted the song.  
“OH I CAN SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING!”  
“What?” Combeferre put in, un-amused and unenthusiastic, earning him another glare from Courfeyrac.  
“AND THEY DON’T HAVE A CLUE!”  
“Who?”  
“THEY’LL FALL IN LOVE, AND HERE’S THE BOTTOM LINE, OUR TRIO’S DOWN TO TWO!” He paused to wipe an imaginary tear away from his eye dramatically.  
He put on a sarcastic French accent as he warbled: “ZE SWEET CARESS OF TWILIGHT, THERE’S MAGIC EVERYWHERE.AND WITH ALL THIS ROMANTIC ATMOSPHERE, DISASTER'S IN THE AIR!” He gesticulated wildly, almost knocking over his glass of wine.  
“Can you feel the love tonight?  
The peace the evening brings.  
The world, for once, in perfect harmony  
With all its living things  
Can you feel the love tonight?  
You needn't look too far  
Stealing through the night's uncertainties  
Love is where they are” They sang together, softer and sweeter.  
“And if he falls in love tonight  
It can be assumed” Courfeyrac turned back to Ferre  
“His carefree days with us are history” Combeferre sang back, almost enjoying himself (although he wasn’t going to admit it)  
“In short, our pal is doomed” They held onto the last note together, not both hitting the same note, but it sounded okay anyway.  
Enjolras had gone bright red, and the tips of Combeferre’s ears were flushed. Enjolras' father didn't look very impressed, but everyone else applauded loudly.

They sat down again, and with shaking hands, Grantaire stood up. He considered the script Jehan prepared for him but against his better judgement decided to ignore it.  
“Well, I’m not really sure how I’m going to follow after that, but I’ll try.” R blushed, eliciting a laugh from the audience. “Enjolras,” he turned to the man in question. “Ever since I have known you, you have had the most gigantic stick up your arse. In fact, I’m pretty sure when we first met you argued with me over how marriage is an outdated institution. Yet look where we are.” He gestured around the room. “I don’t believe in love. I never have, and I never will, but looking at you two, I think I might have come close.” He gave the couple a sad, soft smile, and for the first time he might have meant it. “But in all the years that I have known you, I have never seen you as happy as when you are with her. You’re smiling all the time. Elation is a good look on you, Apollo. It makes you all the more radiant.” Grantaire had fixed a wobbly smile onto his face but he could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “So to both of you, I wish you all the luck in the world.” He paused, raised his glass to the couple sat upon the dais. “I really do.” He looked down at the floor, because he could feel Enjolras’ eyes burning hot upon him, but he could have sworn he heard him whisper  
“thank you.”

As the room dissipated into private conversations and music again, and Enjolras offered his hand to Patricia to start the first dance, R snuck out alone, finding a quiet patch of garden where he could sob to his heart’s content, by a little pond with a water feature, a lone lily pad floating on the inky water, the pink tinged petals of the flower in stark contrast with the night. The only light, softly flooding the patches of grass and concrete stepping stones was emitted by flickering candles lining the pathways. He could hear Jehan moving almost silently to his side, but stopped him before he could sit down.  
“Go back inside, Jehan.” His voice heavy with weariness. Jehan hesitated for a moment, before bending down to kiss R’s curls before heading back to the party, leaving Grantaire alone again, in the impending darkness.

 


	2. never mine to keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so so sorry it has taken me so long to update this!!! But here we are, finally! This is going to turn out to be more than 2 chapters isnt it? Ah well.  
> Also a massive thank you to Bonnie, who betas all of this for me, (because shes the only one who'll do it) despite the fact she hasn't even seen Les Mis and has to constantly put up with my probably massively annoying fangirling. She is a wonderful wonderful person. 
> 
> N.B. Combeferre was living with Enjolras, and Courfeyrac with Marius, however since Enjolras and Marius both got married and moved out, they decided it was made more "economical sense" to move in together (the dorks).

“I’m worried about him.” Combeferre confessed. “Enjolras never does things by halves. He will fall head first into an infatuation and call it love. Which is what I think has happened here.”  
“Your point being?” Courfeyrac stuffed his hand into the biscuit tin and resurfaced with three jammy dodgers. Combeferre made a face, and slowly Courfeyrac replaced one of the biscuits, looking suitably chastised.  
“My point being,” Combeferre reached across the table to claim one of the biscuits for his own, “He married Patricia four months after he met her. That’s too soon, by anyone’s standards.”  
“So you’re saying their marriage is going to crumble?” Courfeyrac asked, spraying crumbs from the jammy dodger jammed into his mouth all over Ferre.  
“Like the biscuit in your mouth.” Combeferre quipped dryly.

Three months later, Combeferre tripped up the stairs to the apartment after work, laden down with groceries. He juggled the bags around, squirming to get the key in the hole and fumbling to turn it. Obstinately, the key refused to turn, and when he tried the handle, the door swung open. Berating Courfeyrac for not being more careful when he went out, Combeferre flicked the light switch, praying to deities he didn’t believe in that no one had broken in and stolen everything they own.  He dropped everything he was carrying with a disturbing clash, the sound of jars smashing and tins denting or bursting filling the apartment. But the still figure on the sofa didn’t even flinch. Ignoring the mess at his feet, Combeferre hesitantly approached his friend. Every maternal instinct in his body was screaming to rush to Enjolras and gather him up in his arms and gently and efficiently purge whatever was upsetting him, whatever violent thoughts had shaken him into this prostate state. But the knowledge that Enjolras had only done this once before, when they were both children, when Enjolras’ mother had died, held him back. He had climbed in through Combeferre’s window, sitting in the darkened room, waiting for his friend to return, face emotionless, eyes unblinking and unseeing. This time was no different, aside from the fact he had used his old key in the lock rather than prying open the window. Combeferre approached him slowly, repeating his name over and over, an arm reached out to him, resting just above his shoulder. When he received no flicker of recognition that he was there, Combeferre left his friend, deep and drowning in thought, to make some drinks, because when Enjolras finally snapped out of it, he was going to need some coffee. He put the cup down in front of Enjolras, settling himself next to him on the couch; book in one hand, tea in the other.  
It took about an hour for Enjolras to come round, and he spent the better part of the evening sobbing in Combeferre’s lap. When Courfeyrac came home, he grimaced at Combeferre, and went to sit on Enjolras’ other side, wrapping his arms round his waist and resting his head on his shoulder. Neither of them needed to ask what had happened, but when Enjolras managed to choke the words out without breaking down again, Combeferre lead them to his room, where they all slept together, curled up round each other, like they used to when they were children, coffee left stone cold and forgotten on the table.

The day after, leaving Enjolras safely in Courfeyrac’s care (though maybe “safely” is not the best description), Combeferre headed over to Enjolras and Patricia’s apartment, to uphold his promise: ‘If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you’. He found her boxing up Enjolras’ things, sorting through all the books on the bookcase and stacking the ones that didn’t belong to her in a box.  
“Combeferre.” She smiled ruefully, letting out a little huff of a laugh. “I don’t need to ask what I can do for _you.”_  
“You hurt my friend, I hurt you.” He explained, with a smile that mirrored hers. Despite everything, the two had got on quite well.  
“ _Are_ you going to hurt me?” She asked with no trace of fear in her voice, turning back to the books.  
“No.” Combeferre scuffed at the corner of a box with the toe of his shoe. There were a few moments of unawkward silence, while she waited for him to state his real reason for coming to her.  
“Why?” He asked after a small eternity. The question hung in the air for a moment before she dared to answer it.  
“Because it was better now than later. And better me than him.” She sealed a full box with masking tape, kicking it violently across the carpet to join the others, always keeping her back to Ferre.  
“That doesn’t answer my question. I didn’t ask why _now._ ” Combeferre shifted the rubbish to the other end of the sofa so he could sit down. “I asked why _ever_.”  
“Because he doesn’t love me.” She said simply. “I don’t think he ever did.”  
“That’s not true.” Combeferre insisted. “He’s at mine and Courf’s right now, crying his eyes out. He _loves_ you.”  
She laughed, a harsh, empty, almost hysterical laugh. “He doesn’t love me. He _thinks_ he loves me.”  
“What do you mean by that?” Combeferre asked gently.  
“I mean,” She almost shouted, turning round so he could see the lone tear that was running its course down her heavily made-up cheek. This was obviously affecting her more than she let on. “I mean,” She began again softer, joining him on the couch. “That he is in love with someone else. He’s just too stupid to realise it.” She stood again, heading to the kitchen.  
“Who?” Combeferre leapt up after her.  
“Oh, the scruffy artist guy, the one who spoke at our wedding.” She tossed over her shoulder dismissively.  
“Are you _sure_?” Ferre demanded, following her into the next room as she shoved a cup under the flow of water emanating from the tap.  
“Pretty goddam sure.” She knocked back the glass in one go. Ferre retreated into pensive thought for a moment.  
“If he’s really in love with R, why in hell did he marry you?”  
“How the hell should I know!? Maybe he thought he didn’t love him back? Maybe he doesn’t want to be gay, who the hell knows!? Who the hell _cares!?”_ She slammed the glass back on the countertop and exhaled loudly. “Sorry.” She apologised to fill the silence.  
“You really do love him.” It wasn’t a question.  
She huffed a mirthless laugh. “I’ll get over it.” She groped in the cupboard for something stronger, refilling her glass with whiskey. “I want them to be happy.” She explained when she got no reply. “That’s what anyone would want.”  
Ferre crossed the room in two strides to embrace her. “Im sorry.” He whispered in her ear, because there wasn’t anything else to say.  
“Don’t be.” She slumped into his grasp. “I hope they’re happy.” Ferre was impressed with the lack of bitterness in her voice.  
“How do you intend to… do…. _it?”_  He pulled back, holding her at arm’s length.  
“An annulment.” She finished the rest of her drink.  
“On what grou…”  
“Unconsummated marriage.” She interrupted.  
“Is it?” Ferre tried not to sound incredulous.  
“Yes.”  
“Oh.” He was slightly taken aback, but she continued apace.  
“For all Enjolras plays the blushing virgin, he’s not.” She laughed again. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. But no, whatever sex he’s had, it’s not with women.”  
“Oh.” Combeferre couldn’t find words, but felt rude to leave. Fortunately his phone buzzing in his pocket gave him a means of escape. He checked his phone to find a text from Courfeyrac detailing Enjolras’ current state and all the things that Courfeyrac was going to do to him when they finally got their house back to themselves. He excused himself under the pretence that Courfeyrac needed him, slight blush covering his cheeks. He made for the door, but her voice stayed him.  
“I wanted to end it on my own terms” She paused. “He was never mine to keep.”  
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” He promised, closing the door behind him, tackling the stairs down to the street two at a time and firing off a text to Courfeyrac informing him of what he just heard. The only reply he got was eight shocked faces in a row with a stream of kisses afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras moves in with R, to give Courfeyrac and Combeferre some space. As one would expect, it did not go as smoothly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY! I AM A HORRIBLE HORRIBLE PERSON! I dont even want to think about how long it has taken me to update this. I had exams and shit, but still. I am going to aim to have another chapter up in a weeks time, but i can't promise anything.  
> Also, as usual i am sorry for the state of my writing, and also sorry for the state of my characterisation, because Courf and Ferre are really wonderful characters and i dont feel my writing does them justice at all.  
> Also i apologise for constantly apologising about the state of my writing, because it must get annoying, but i feel that it must be done. Sorry...

Enjolras remained with Courf and Ferre for a while, whilst he moved out of his old apartment, whilst he recuperated.  
  
By the end of the week, Enjolras decided that he had overstayed his welcome and invaded their privacy for too long.

 The armada of beige boxes had overtaken the living room, stacked one on top of another, Enjolras’ entire life contained within a few square metres of corrugated card. But since he had nowhere to stay, and not enough money to rent anywhere by himself, it was clear he was going to have to stay with one of their friends.

Courfeyrac, the bastard, took it upon himself to play Eros, dropping hints as Enjolras hunted, things like: “You know, R has a spare room.” Or “I’m pretty sure Grantaire wouldn’t mind you moving in with him.” Combeferre glared every time, but never actively tried to stop him. And when Enjolras finally decided there was no other option, he approached R and requested a place to stay, at least for a little while. And because Grantaire is a huge fucking moron, and because he has never been able to deny his Apollo anything, he is over at Courf and Ferre’s the next afternoon (since he didn’t wake up until 1:30), helping Enjolras to load his boxes into R’s little, green, bashed-up Volvo.

~~~

They drove in silence, apart from the slight intakes of breath and various tuts Enjolras gave every time he disapproved of R’s driving, until Grantaire remembered the keys he had had cut for Enjolras, digging in his pocket while he drove, swerving the car slightly and nearly hitting a bollard. Enjolras drew a deep breath and swore at him under his breath, clinging to the door handle.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, Apollo.” R joked, fishing the keys out of his pocket and dropping them In Enjolras’ palm.

“Did you even pass your driving test?” Enjolras hissed as the car rattled and stalled.

“To be fair this is a very old car,” R objected. “Also I may have been..uh.. friends with the examiner, maybe.” He confessed after Enjolras shot him a sceptical look. The man in question snorted.

“So did you sleep with him before or after the test?” Enjolras joked sarcastically.

“Both.” R replied simply. He smirked infuriatingly at the slightly shocked look that flickered over his face.

“Eyes on the fucking road!” Enjolras most definitely did not screech, whipping his arm out to yank the steering wheel towards him. “Pull over.” He demanded as the car sped up, the figure on the dial creeping up over the speed limit.

“Apollo, seriously? I’m not that bad.” R protested. “Don’t be a child.”

“Pull the _fuck_ over!” Enjolras shrieked, as close to begging as the marble man ever got. R swerved into a free space and the car juddered to a halt. Enjolras was out within seconds, R following him.

“Apollo, come _on_. Get back in the fucking car, for God’s sake!” R jogged to keep up with Enjolras, who was striding off down the pavement.

“No. You drive like a lunatic. I’m not going with you.” Enjolras yelled without looking over his shoulder. People were starting to stare. If it were anyone else, R would have turned round and stormed back to his car. But this was Enjolras.

“Wait, Apollo, please,” Grantaire caught up with him, grabbing his wrist and spinning him round to face him. “You don’t even know the way. Just slow down so I can walk with you.”

Enjolras watched him with trepidation for a moment, eyes wide, before he nodded curtly, turning around again to continue walking, but at a slow enough pace that R could follow alongside. They walked in uncomfortable silence for a few streets, neither quite knowing what to say. Outside the door of their apartment, R stopped and turned to look him in the eye.

“Apollo. Look at me. I have no regrets about doing this favour for you. But in order to make this work, you’re going to have to try to be less….you…. Please, Apollo.”

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, as though he had asked him to fetch him the moon. After a second, he blinked, then nodded, headed for the door, stopped.

“If I do that for you, then you have to be less self-deprecating. And less drunk.” Enjolras decided. R grunted contemptuously as he opened the door,

“Anyway, what do you care?” He asked flippantly as they entered the apartment. Enjolras stopped in his tracks, watching Grantaire with dismay.

“I care because I’m your friend, ‘Taire.” He said, eyebrows knotted in the centre of his creased face. The expression melted from his features as he began to look around the dingy room, ignoring the fact that R was frozen, staring at him with an odd look plastered all over his face.

“Your bedroom is first door on the left.” R pointed down the hall, when he had recovered himself. “I’m going to pick up the car.”

“Try not to kill yourself.” Enjolras snorted, opening his door. Grantaire didn’t answer, turned to go with a clenched jaw, but a voice behind him stayed him.

“Thank you, R.” Enjolras’ blue, blue eyes were boring into him. It made him feel safe and uneasy all at once.

“For what. I haven’t done…” Grantaire started.

“For everything.” Enjolras cut him off. He looks him up and down once, then nods, and disappears into his room.

~~~

R returned with the car at 8, bringing up the start of Enjolras’ boxes. He helped him move them into his room, but they left them closed, Enjolras emptying his suitcase into the chest of drawers. Dinner was an awkward, silent affair consisting of pasta, roasted vegetables and uneasy eye contact.

Enjolras offered R the first shower, and he took it gratefully. He seemed so glad to be rid of Enjolras, if just for a few minutes. Enjolras tried to pretend he wasn’t a little offended. He sat himself on the sofa with his book, but his eyes kept straying to the bathroom door. He seemed acutely aware of the fact that Grantaire was showering just one room away from him, he could hear him humming, softly over the drumming of the water on the shower floor. Sharing an apartment with R was going to be bizarre.

~~~

When Enjolras got out of the shower, still damp, his hair dripping down his back, R was sat on the sofa, a copy of the Iliad in one hand and a pencil in the other, marking his notes down the side. The TV was murmuring in the background. Grantaire looked up at the sound of the door closing.

“I’m going to bed.” Enjolras announced. “Goodnight.” He crossed the room to his door, and stopped. He stopped and he thought for quite a while. When he turned round again, Grantaire was staring at him with an amused smirk.

“Thank you. Really. This means the world to me, it does.” Enjolras assured him urgently. “And also,” He hesitated, made a face, “I apologise for the way I acted in the car earlier.”

R blinked several times in succession. In all the time he had known Enjolras, not once had he heard him apologise for his actions. Before he could regain his composure and wave off the apology, Enjolras was talking again, fidgeting with the hem of a black, too-big t-shirt.

“It’s just, the last time someone was driving like that, it was my father.” He stopped for a moment and frowned as though he had discovered a minor inconvenience. “And the last time someone was driving like that, my mother died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....this was only supposed to be a one-shot...  
>  Oh Enjolras you poor, stupid, oblivious bastard. That's a very cliched character trope, his obliviousness, im sorry, this fic is just one train wreck after another, sorry

**Author's Note:**

> R I'm so sorry my darling.  
> In case it wasn't obvious, i have never been to a wedding in my life.  
> Patrica/Patria - I thought it was fitting. 
> 
> I may write another, happier, part to this fic, depending on the feedback this receives and whether i have the time.


End file.
